


In medias res

by Zabbers



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Bondage, Dubious Consent, Episode: s12e10 The Timeless Children, F/M, Fisting, Nipple Play, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, but probably not in a nice way, unlikely Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-26 23:48:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30113925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zabbers/pseuds/Zabbers
Summary: New bodies, new tricks, though the familiar is good too, until it isn't.[ETA: I've been asked to tag "who the top/bottom or sub/dom is", and I'm not sure I'm comfortable setting up an expectation that I could do this competently for all my fics, but I guess in this case, the Master is the one putting things in places, and the Doctor is the one dubiously consenting to it.]
Relationships: The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 11





	In medias res

The Master has his entire hand inside the Doctor. 

It’s a surprise to him as much as it is to her; the ease with which he’d penetrated her, first with one finger, and then another, is so novel, so _moreish_ , so unexpected—when he’d finally met with resistance, he’d gathered his fingers together into a shape he could fit to her, forming a streamlined wedge, essentially, with his little finger tucked tremulously under, and kept pushing, working, turning. Watching her face. 

Then his thumb had completed the beak of his hand, and he’d adjusted his wrist, and his knuckles had slipped past some final grudging opposition, suddenly, startlingly. He’d found himself wrist-deep in the Doctor’s body. 

He’s staring up at her with the wide eyes of incredulity, something like a giggle clamped between his teeth. If the Doctor hadn’t been willing to hold his gaze before, she certainly is now. She’s breathing through her mouth, her chest moving visibly. 

Her lip lifts, but she isn’t going to say anything. Hasn’t bothered to since he’d sprung his trap. In no regeneration has it been more obvious that the Doctor talks merely for the sake of talking. Nor can it be more obvious that she no longer sees much point in talking to him. And why should she? What is he to her, after all? 

Or maybe it’s just the shock. It is for him. 

The Master wriggles his fingers. Lets them fall, folding them around his thumb. 

He raises his eyebrows at her, spreads his lips in a grin. _And now, for my next trick...my lovely assistant._

He rocks his arm inside her. She’s pushing against him from all around, a sort of sucking warm denial. Something slick works its way down his wrist as he increases his range of motion, and he takes his eyes off her face to look at it, his whole hand gone, swallowed, disembodying sensation, his arm a trunk growing out of the Doctor’s root, the hair on it matting and pointing downwards with what’s dripping out of her. 

He traces it off his own wrist, gathering the trickle with his fingertip, and transfers it to his tongue. The Master had tasted herself before, of course, and the coatingly smooth astringency reminds him of it, so that now he leaks, too, with the memory, this body doing its best to approximate what the previous one had known. 

He gathers _that_ —opens his flies and he reaches in—and he dabs it onto the Doctor’s clit. Fascinating, funny, shiny, sensitive little thing, so different from the one in the mirror in spite of being fundamentally the same, hidden in its hair and its hood. Now exposed by him, holding her wide. He’s stretching back all coverings, touching his finger to it and feeling her start around him before letting it tuck itself away again, his wrist slicker than ever, prompting him to push his fist forwards and backwards inside of her. 

He isn’t trying to feel what she feels. But, as he experiences the tight envelopment, he can’t help the flashes, imagined or overheard: her legs, stretched and already beginning to shake in their glowing restraints; the intense pressure, pushing constantly and completely filling, until movement itself makes her aware that there is something that can move and still room for it to move in; the discomfiting wet stickiness streaking and dripping out of folds and into cracks; and the dogged vision of the dual rings of text overhead, going round and around, unsinged and untouched and spelling out into her mind words she doesn’t need to read to know. 

Neither does he. 

_The Matrix, the vaults,_ and _that promise, spared. You barely destroyed our planet at all._

“ _My_ planet.” The Master grits his teeth. His fist tightens. 

He can’t draw his arm back, but he punches into her anyway. Easy, it’s too easy. 

He watches her body jump in place, doesn’t care if it’s in response to his touch or because of its violence. He moves his arm inside her, rapid, looking for its motion on the surface of her belly. He does this, at first, with his other hand behind the small of his back, fisted too, his nails in his palm, but as he pumps he brings it forward again and clamps his fingers around the inside of her thigh. He squeezes and he shoves, urging a little more spread, driving on the obtuse stretch of her legs. 

He’s full of the need to use this leverage, to shove himself through her and against her, and there is something about this that is like banging his head again and again on a wall, that rocking, repeating gratification that lulls and seduces, drawing him into it, promising relief. 

The Doctor makes a sound with every thrust, a distant sound: deep and slow, not high-pitched, like land shifting far underground, grinding, immovable, hard, and then molten. She twists and pushes from him, her thighs straining themselves together, a hopeless struggle, her knees knobbly, knuckle-white, her flesh darker where she’s fighting the restraints. So much pressure, and he’s hitting something in her, ridge against ridge inside that with every impact radiates buildingly, interiorly, tugging on all of her. 

She wants to grab him, she wants to grab him so badly, her hands fist too, but they’re held back far from him. And he won’t lean close; he isn’t even looking at her face anymore; he’s in that inner space with her, in wet slick, tight full, punch punch punch punch, his mouth open, her mouth open, his hair swinging sweat-soaked over his eyes, flinging droplets onto the untouched territories of her skin. 

Maybe she gets off. Maybe it’s strange not to be sure. There is too much sensation, too much gasping, spasming bodyness, the mind’s grasp of the corporeal reaching its limit before breaking through it. There’s just building before and blind after, twitching as he backs his way out of her, pulling against suction that doesn’t want to let him go. There’s a pause, the wide part of his hand prolonging the stretch; he holds himself there, thinking of her flushed, blood-dusky skin, the dark ellipse and stoma of it mouthing his knuckles. It’s so thin, so bruiselike, the membrane of the Doctor’s body reshaping itself to accommodate him. 

He pops his thumb out first and presses it down, strokes it over her. The Doctor jerks each time he flicks it down and brings it to the top again, gasps, trying to speak. Trying to form the words to get him to—what? Oh, his knuckles. Probably. He pulls his hand out all the way at last and looks, fascinated, into the space he’s left behind, the wide-open wet deep inside of the Doctor. He sticks his hand in again, removes it. Again. He laughs. 

“Stop that!” She’s indignant. Ridiculous. Shaking.

The Master withdraws his hand with one last squelching flourish; fluid runs down toward the Doctor’s arse and forms strings between his fingers when he holds them up and flexes them. He rubs it all thoughtfully around, pets her thoroughly, _my dear Doctor_ , then closes his hand again to the same thumb press, different part of her anatomy, pliant bounce of her arsehole, just enough pressure: not quite enough. She shivers. Shudders. 

“Would you like this?” he asks softly, almost a mutter, mostly addressing her long, bare thigh. 

At first, nothing. Then: “Yes.”

“Would you? Really?”

Another long wait. “Yes. Master.”

He makes a sound, a small, satisfied huff somewhere at the back of his throat, still looking at her knee and at her pointed toes.

Unfastened, he’s already most of the way out. He takes hold—he enjoys his own cock, the heavy, hard objectness of it, the _imposition_ , taking up space in the universe. The humans are right, it’s a tool. It’s full now, straining like the Doctor’s legs, stretched taut from its own hood as he pulls on the skin, and he glides it along the Doctor’s labia, letting it get wetter, just brushing the smooth inside of the slowly relaxing gape. 

The pucker of her arse, in contrast, is still tightly closed, though slick now. The Master presses against it, rubbing small circles. Suddenly, he’s impatient; he pushes; her wince registers as a pinprick of light in a black red-dark; he’s all the way in her, his body up close to hers at the pelvis, and he’s stood over her, their eyes meeting. 

Breath. Breath. Breath.

Then she wriggles, as if to remind him. He moves incrementally back and forth. He clasps the two of them together, crushing into her as tight as he can go. His improvised restraints—the paralysis field, split and focused down into cuffs and sleeves—support her weight flexibly while holding her fixed in place, so he can fuck her without swinging her about, and it’s her limbs that will have to take the strain. Her coat and her braces hang down from her shoulders, the braces trailing to nothing with nothing to hold on to. 

He bends down and bites her nipple through her t-shirt. 

She hisses and squeezes around him, unable to flinch out of his grip, though she tries. 

“Ow!”

He holds on with his teeth for just long enough, until the fabric is wet through and allows him to trace her hardening nipple with his tongue. When he tilts his head back to look at his work, there’s a warp in her rainbow, dark and defined, and oh, he would love to release her like this and send her out into the world to be seen, obvious with his handiwork. 

But his work isn’t over, so: 

“I have—” he says, rocking, “—so much—” thrusting, “—to show you—when we’re finished here.”

“Your game-changer,” she retorts, scathing, as he sinks his fingers into her waist. “I don’t see anything being any different so far.”

“You will.”

His belief almost undoes him, his sudden, nauseating remembering. The Master releases his hands as though burned, the aversion jolting through him. 

But he concentrates manfully through it, focussing on the familiar sensation of the Doctor’s arse around his cock, willing it to overwhelm everything, to white out his mind and turn the pain into the blank beyond it. He fucks and he fucks, and for a moment, when he comes, it’s gone and he’s fine; yet on the flip side of that moment, even as he’s riding it, he can see everything that is going to crash back into him, and he cries out. It’s despair—he tries to push it out of his body, into her, but too late, and he staggers a step, two, sliding out of her, retreating, choking.

He bites down hard on the sinking, sick _after_. He’d rather swallow his tongue than let the Doctor see any more of this. He’s shrinking fast—apt—, clammy and disgusted and distant from himself. This isn’t fun anymore. Somewhere, it stopped being fun. Somewhere, it became a pantomime. Not even the thought of the puppet joke they so deserve can lift him. 

He reconfigures the paralysis field to release her arms and legs, dropping her, trusting it on its forcefield setting to work as a holding cell while he turns away and she recovers her awful (they’re always awful; have they always been awful?) trousers. Still residually connected to her mind, he knows she’s peering at him with wary, uncertain watchfulness as she knots the laces on her boots. 

She doesn’t understand. She _let_ him...even here, like this, now, breathing in the burnt-up world he made...but she doesn’t understand. She will, he said. He’ll show her. The Master adjusts his own clothing, extracts a handkerchief from his pocket, wipes and wipes. Wipes again. He could rub his hands forever, and they will never be clean. 

He could ram all of himself inside her and it wouldn’t make things equal between them.


End file.
